Page 418 - A Little Life: A Novel

in here who’s not in corporate mufti. And why do you think they keep
bringing over all these appetizers? It’s not because of me, I guarantee you.”
Now he laughed. “Why did you choose this place anyway? I thought you

were going to pick somewhere downtown.”
He groaned. “I heard the crudo was good. And what do you mean: Is
there a dress code here?”
Jude smiled again and was about to answer when one of the discreet
gray-suited men came over to them and, vividly embarrassed, apologized
for interrupting them. “I just wanted to say that I loved The Sycamore
Court,” he said. “I’m a big fan.” Willem thanked him, and the man, who

was older, in his fifties, was about to say something else when he saw Jude
and blinked, clearly recognizing him, and stared at him for a bit, obviously
recategorizing Jude in his head, refiling what he knew about him. He
opened his mouth and shut it and then apologized again as he left, Jude
smiling serenely at him the entire time.
“Well, well,” said Jude, after the man had hurried away. “That was the

head of the litigation department of one of the biggest firms in the city.
And, apparently, an admirer of yours.” He grinned at Willem. “Now are you
convinced you’re famous?”
“If the benchmark for fame is being recognized by twentysomething
female RISD graduates and aging closet cases, then yes,” he said, and the
two of them started snickering, childishly, until they were both able to
compose themselves again.

Jude looked at him. “Only you could be on magazine covers and not
think you’re famous,” he said, fondly. But Willem wasn’t anywhere real
when those magazine covers came out; he was on set. On set, everyone
acted like they were famous.
“It’s different,” he told Jude. “I can’t explain it.” But later, in the car to
the airport, he realized what the difference was. Yes, he was used to being

looked at. But he was only really used to being looked at by certain kinds of
people in certain kinds of rooms—people who wanted to sleep with him, or
who wanted to talk to him because it might help their own careers, or
people for whom the simple fact that he was recognizable was enough to
trigger something hungry and frantic in them, to crave being in his
presence. He wasn’t, however, accustomed to being looked at by people
who had other things to do, who had bigger and more important matters to

worry about than an actor in New York. Actors in New York: they were